how about hot chocolate?
no I didn’t turn up high on vodka, i didn’t want that warmth down my throat, down my anything. Yes, I was dating myself.
So, how about hot chocolate? Yeah, hot?
was the latter name cheating just like the girls in bikini did, or was the Mephistopheles having a good laugh when the angel almost seemed to have won the final verdict?
Why final verdict?! I wasn’t dying! It was just a drink, just a morning. Period.
it struck 03:48 on the digital clock, in chasing red, bloody red, danger red, no not the lovely red! Anti Valentine thoughts once provoked me to curse the saint in whose name was the suicidal day respected, in a church, loudly, yes, i WAS thrown out. No i didn’t want to hurt people’s sentiments, their religion, i respect them a lot. But why red for valentine, not for vampire?
This red was the magic behind why my two swollen bags, beside my half perpetually blocked, half perpetually running nose, could figure out what’s beyond the stretch of my eyelids, without the aid of those horn rimmed spectacles that laid probably broken under my own weight after last night i threw myself into bed not knowing what or where, just in time i would break down. And ofcource, the magic behind my bigger, fatter, dumber swollen bag, the bruised, the long dead brain, that it still somehow managed to remember FOUR NUMBERS! even with details, almost invisibly blurry, including the colon that separated pairs of digits! and, no, my baggies didn’t have to strain more for gaping up at two more letters that would tell me what laid outside the double lined curtains, i used the 24 hour version even with THIS memory just so i forgot the difference between an an and pm.
No wonder why digi clocks shone in red, why danger signs did too.
smart? come on! i didn’t have to look out the window to know which 3:48, just an a and p were so misleading!
once, yeah once, i put an alarm in a state of perpetual misery knowing of my epic time management that would lead me nowhere, and the ‘p’ before it’s ‘m’ hit my nerves when my swollen bags were back to normal. Oh why did you ditch the ‘a’ ‘m’?! it took 12 more hours to get back to normal?! routine is lethal! And more than what my boss got anyway.
and back (to normal) from?
hot chocolate?!
probably i wasn’t cheating myself, or the hotness cheating warmth, my bigger swollenbag, the pumpkin head, which had to bear all the blues of all the mornings, not just monday, was cheating my whole existance. Maybe afterall the tantrums it threw, my brain was not EXACTLY dead, even though it declined alchohol for a glass of syrupy shit, i decided to forgive it, after giving up thoughts on poisoning it, butchering it, castrating it’s male counterpart, raping it’s female, and subconsciously retiring to a state of sanity after realizing it was inside MY skull, which would hurt if i tore it apart, and knowing of my courage, i could only decide to use it, instead of letting it exploit me, my own brain.
And all of the mornings, i mentioned were had to be saddled upon, because, if any of them had a face, my brain would punch it, another reason for my humbleness towards it.
Mornings were frustrating. even to a new born who’s puke is no worse an alarm after even the cock has been off for vacation since a few decades after the industrial revolution, even he accepted mornings were shit and he wouldn’t wake anyone, even himself, early. To a school going child, if you wonder why, you probably were sent to disneyland instead of the ‘shrines of education’ to fly airplanes out of social science books, and blow bubbles out of hollow bodies of pen, instead of rote learning facts and penning them just to never ever ever ever use them practically in your life again. To an 18 year old, what party kills is the ‘SINCERE’ college schedule, amd even their consciousness in the mornings. To an office person, everything before breakfast is frustrating, so probably even half the afternoon is. To a homemaker, don’t even ask! Cornflakes over bathroom mat, underwear in the dishwasher, stinking socks bred over by flying cockroaches lying in the farthest corner of the room under the drawer where not even eyes reach but, in once every few years, brooms do, all of it is just an unfathomed imaginable insight to an hour of their every day hazy mornings. To a bar dancer, crazy after the moves she made last night, and got no better than 300 bucks, and how she had thought of making millions out of fortune some day she dreamt long after a stranger had asked what she wanted to become after school, she would probably think of returning to country farm.
To me?
All of them begin with a hangover.Actually, they don’t. Mornings occur when i am usually either almost half dead, or less than half alive. Both ways, they begin, but not to me. Yes, i am on the northern hemisphere of the earth 85 degree right to the Greenwich meridian, near the equator. Still, i never see mornings. I last saw one when i was in school, probably a few years from now, i don’t know why did we do PE under 11 o’clock tropical sun, typically as potent as a lethal dosage of anaesthesia.
Now, they are estranged phenomenas, the mornings, that occur to my juniors, and the office men, and the new borns and all the others i forgot to mention, i duely apologize for not conveying your miseries forth. But it won’t matter, because sun doesn’t read books.
So, i finally decided to make a difference, a big one, with the defyingly hot Syrupy shit in me, and the loving vodka, the beloved vodka, the seducing vodka, the penetrating vodka, out.
Out of the shelf, no,not all over to be mislead into me, but out, further…towards the carton, BUT before that…cuddling a little, then teasing away, my muse, my better half, away from the kitchen slab, or should i say, bar slab, towards the door, with regrets of leaving apart, out of the house.
What?!
I was emotional!
For, my new mistress was a job.
I was going to meeting two phenomenas!!! (Mornings and workplace)
Actually, THEY were meeting one.
my bagging a job was alone a catastrophic event, monstrous for all the stock markets to dry up, trades to shut, economies to fall.
And so the cock HAD to return, i wasn’t going to be awaken alone by 3 clocks alarmed on 1000 hz hidden in unreachable ends under different furniture pieces, just so i wouldn’t snooze any, on the morning of the second day, or of the coming, anytime before a year and a half, or even forever. The first day had already been a shock that compelled my senses to sharpen, enough to recognize the time on an analog clock.
Adjustments made me sick!
What? Don’t you sympathize, wish me luck.
I need it. To survive. With lost love. Lost vodka. Lost midnights. Found job. Found mornings. Oh, found droplets on leaves yesterday while i was on my mock drill to wake up, then recalled something like dew drops held existence. And, i saw my neighbor do laundry, i always wondered when the polka dots and 34D changed to padded and strapless ones.
That day, i wasn’t drunk. So interestingly, i learnt, the UFO that i thought flew over my house each time a streak of light itched my drowsy-in-sleep eyes was just a vaccum cleaner.
How i wished i could make friends with aliens from a planet that paid residents to drink and dream, instead of burning their blood to blue.
